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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238901">to hold the stars in place</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimworld/pseuds/Rimworld'>Rimworld</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Violence, Character Death, Character Study, Implied Relationships, Spoilers for ARR msq</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:20:03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,846</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26238901</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rimworld/pseuds/Rimworld</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>#1 - Crux. Camp Drybone looms in the distance like a familiar ghost, and already I'rhnin feels the urge to scratch away the ache of long, silent hours until he bleeds.<br/>#2- Sway. When Folques finds him stranded in the thicket, wearing a smile sharper than the bed of rock underneath him, I’rhinn decides it’s the last time he ignores Fate’s warnings.<br/>#3 - Muster. The catch about Lalafell - in Rin’s experience — is that even the most deadass jerk among them is absolutely adorable<br/>#4 - Clinch. Then, there is silence. And in the silence, light.<br/> </p><p>[30 Day FFxivWrite Challenge | A collection of ficlets on I'rhinn Nur, Seeker of the Sun, Dragoon, disaster extraordinaire and the worst WOL Eorzea could ever remember]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1. conundrum</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day 1# Crux </p><p>noun, plural crux·es, cru·ces [kroo-seez]</p><p>a vital, basic, decisive, or pivotal point.<br/>
a cross.<br/>
something that torments by its puzzling nature; a perplexing difficulty.</p><p>——</p><p><br/>
Loneliness is a scab I’rhinn can’t help but pick at. </p><p>It sits within him like a wound under old bandages, sweat-stained, stuffy, the faint stench of rust mingling with the warmth of flesh that seeks release and skin that longs for the touch of the sun. Almost healed, but not truly. Not quite there yet. One day he will walk the blinding crossroads of Thanalan without feeling so thirsty for company, so bone-weary with silence. Fed up with watching his back, only for relief to sting worse than a sandpeistle’s bite. Tomorrow, perhaps. Or the day after, even.</p><p>Sometimes, as he threads the desert with another impossible task at hand, he remembers how easily companionship came before the Crystal. Before the Ring of Fire. Before the raging swelling of the Navel, and the banquet, and the slaughter. Before <em>friends</em> became anathema and <em>allies</em> a death warrant.</p><p>(<em>They learned that lesson well, down at the Waking Sand. Her halls speak to him still, the Echo washing his nightmares in glimpses of spilled bloods. </em></p><p><em>Sometimes he wonders if they cursed him, the Scions, all of them bright in their fall, startled comets fleeing Imperial steel. He wishes they did, even on their last breath. It's the least he deserves for being the crux of Minfilia’s plan, and leaving her whole world to crumble. It is a selfish wish, but it makes him feel less stranded.</em> <em>Gives him an excuse to resent them, too. A sea of friendly strangers surrounding him, all too ready to extend a hand in friendship, all too eager to trust him. Whatever did they expect? </em></p><p><em>After a lifetime of solitude, how was he supposed to stay away from them?<br/>
</em><em>How do you save the world without letting it seep under your skin?</em><br/>
<em>He hates those wondering nights the most</em>.)</p><p>Camp Drybone looms in the distance like a familiar ghost, and already Rin feels the urge to scratch away the ache of long, silent hours until he bleeds. He cannot stop; will not stop. There are enemies to be scorched and primal gods to be dethroned. Still he yearns. <br/>
He wishes for laughter; for the sweetness of wine on another’s lips. For a fight that will scrape the grief from his knuckles and give him a reason to show his teeth, yell louder, be angrier. He wishes for a touch, the casual gentleness of a peddler sitting outside. For the stable-hand to scold him, for testing Vijaya’s resilience. <br/>
He wishes for time to mourn. </p><p>He wishes, he wishes, he wishes—</p><p>(<em>All the good things, to those who live. Is that how the saying goes?</em>)</p><p>Loneliness feels like an inadequate punishment. He wishes he’d taught himself to stand his own company a long time ago. Then he could face the desert without the costant, mocking reminder that even the strongest pillars are ground to dust, eventually. He could set his torment to rest.</p><p>He could turn the spear into a new crux, and begin rebuilding what he lost.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 2. fog</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which I'rhinn faces a mirror, or an enemy, or both.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day 2# Sway</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>the act of swaying; swaying movement.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>rule; dominion:</em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>dominating power or influence:</em>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>——</p><p> </p><p>The day starts out wrong.</p><p>First is the rain, thundering on Bentbranch’s rooftops and fields. I’rhinn can hardly blame Vijaya for refusing to step out of the stables. It’s one of those grey mornings that are better spent in bed, curled up around day dreams and books he has no true intention of reading. Yet the perfect chance to sleep shatters when a young Elezen shows up at his door, drenched to the bones, a bleeding gash on his shoulder. Seeking help for the wooden monstrosity that ravaged his family’s carriage.</p><p>Second comes the Wailers’ response, strangely, unusually slow. The patrols are stretched thin by the last Ixali raid, they say, when Rin inquires why no one went after the beast. The damage is done — if I’rhinn wants to open the way, they’ll be grateful. It’s what sets him out in the end, regardless of the downpour. Rin has never been good at watching the unrest bloom from afar. One more hunt, one more chance to hone his skills, he tells himself — and if he can help someone along the way, even better. Ywain will be happy about his progress.</p><p>The angry Treant finds him before he has a chance to test his mentor’s new lesson.</p><p>The fight is a nightmare of whipping branches and hails of thorns, splinters and furious roars. By the time the Wailers catch up with him, Rin has dodged more deadly blows than he can count and doesn’t know which of the Twelve to thank for his sheer luck. Toghether, they wrangle it away from Bentbranch.</p><p>From there the hunt is pure chaos. It’s shouting. It’s running. It’s chasing the beast down into the deepest shadow of the woods. Mud and blood and sap flying about until the rain tastes like earth, like defeat.</p><p>And then, at some point, it’s one foot slipping over the wrong side of a ravine, and a long, stuttering fall, and waking up to silence and regret. It’s waiting, straining to hear the Wailers under the whispering rain.</p><p>When Foulques finds him stranded in the thicket, wearing a smile sharper than the bed of rock underneath him, I’rhinn decides it’s the last time he ignores Fate’s warnings.</p><p>‘At last. I knew you would grow bored with that charlatan’s rambling.’</p><p>Foulques voice is all velvet and smugness, curled around a mangled smirk. It turns him from handsome to ugly, a ghost in the mist around them.</p><p>Rin forces a growl from his throat.</p><p>‘Not …a chance…yet—’</p><p><em>If the bastard is here, there must be a way out of the ravine. </em>The Twelveswood breathe green and lush after the rain, shrouding everything in a veil of fog. Rin knows it’s temporary. He could find his way back, endure the walk back to the lights of Bentbranch — provided he didn’t stray too far. The mud will hide his scent from the beasts and sprites. He’s not worried about being found.</p><p>The problem is the Duskwight picking through the undergrowth, graceful in his strides as if he’s walking on solid marble. The tail of his spear brushes the nettle aside as he prowls closer. Closer and closer still.</p><p>‘If you didn’t, why else stalk the Wood for a challenge? Though it seems the fight found you rather than the other way around.’</p><p>Rin palms the spear at his side. The wood is damp and scratched, but still in one piece. He whirls it out, snake-quick. The blade whizzes past Foulques ankles. Ywain would chew him up for missing such an easy target, but at least Foulques is forced to stop. When he glares, Rin greets him with a bloodied smile.</p><p>‘Here’s how we’re gonna do this’ he spells out, with a calm he doesn’t feel at all. ‘I’ll get up, dust myself off and take my leave. And you will step aside and let me pass, if you don’t want your teeth smashed in. Each to their merry way. No bloodshed, no challenges, and no stupid monologues.’</p><p>Foulques barks out a laugh.</p><p>‘Or what? Ywain forbade you to fight me, did he not? He’s too afraid to lose his precious sapling before he tempers your spirit for good. Before he has the chance to turn you into a spineless coward, like the rest of the guild.’</p><p>Azeyma, he wants nothing more than to silence the fool with a fist to the mouth, but this is a fight he cannot win. His head is spinning and there’s something wrong with his ribs, though Rin doesn’t feel the sharp, stabbing pain of a fractured bone. Panic claws at his throat, urging him to loosen the straps, take off the leather cuirass. He forces it down with great gulping breaths.</p><p><em>Steadfast, I’rhinn. Get up. Get going. Before things turn ugly</em>.</p><p>Slowly, aching all over, he heaves himself to his feet.</p><p>‘I don’t have time for this, Foulques. If you want to keep practicing your monologues, go to the Mih Khetto’s Ampitheater. They’ll know what to make of another jester.’</p><p>The blow catches him midstep, ripping the breath from his lungs.</p><p>It’s a warning, the dull whack of a spear tail rather than the bite of its blade, but I’rhinn sinks back to his knees nonetheless. His inside are alight, his throat raw with bile.</p><p>‘Look at you.’ Foulques snarls ‘Last time we met you were eager to face me; no more than a handful of days, and all I’m left with is a mewling, helpless kitten that can’t bear to face how misleading his mentor is. A shameful waste.’</p><p>The surge of his temper is strangely alluring, like staring into an open flame. I’rhinn remembers feeding bits of himself to a kindred rage. Anger followed him to his bed every night — and he would wake up starving, endlessly chewing on resentment and self-loathing.</p><p>He doesn’t miss that kind of hunger. Not anymore. Ywain purged it, one painful training session after the other. And yet Foulques has the astonishing, infuriating talent for stoking the cinders left in the wake of all that fire.</p><p>‘So go find yourself another idiot to bother’ He hisses through clenched teeth. ‘Go — find yourself a decent rival.’</p><p>‘I don’t want another. I want you.’</p><p>The wood sways and swivels around Rin in a dizzying reel. His wounds hurt, but the words burn far deeper.</p><p>No one has ever wanted him before.</p><p>Not his <em>nunh</em>, disappointed by a scared little whelp failing every hunt. Not the travelers he shared the road with. It was always closed fists and judging stares, before coming to the Barracks. Always someone requesting he proved himself — his spirit, his blood, his fists, his everything. Even Ywain tested his resolve before the Barracks opened to welcome him, and I’rhinn thought it fair. All too often <em>stranger</em> coincides with trouble.</p><p>Foulques did not.</p><p>A hand closes on Rin’s tunic, yanking him upright. Foulque’s tall, the bastard, looming over him, trapping him between boulders and his own, frail ego. His touch is rough and Rin hisses at him out of fear, more than pain. He’s afraid of what he might see in the Duskwight’s shadow. Afraid of finding a reflection staring back, instead of an enemy.</p><p>‘You’re begging for approval at the foot of the wrong man, I’rhinn Nur.’</p><p>‘Should I grovel at yours? A bully and a kidnapper?’</p><p>‘I’ve been called far worse’ Foulques retorts, nonplussed, though his voice strains. His grip on Rin’s shoulder is ironclad. ‘And so were you. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself. Being doesn’t suit you. You are made to lunge and fight and claw your way through the storm. Even the Wailers held back, but you did not. How can you not see it? The guild will stifle you. They will use you and toss you aside.’</p><p>The wood is quiet, a beast poised to jump at his throat. Rin forces himself to stare back at Foulques’ flame. To ignore the ashes in his own heart, rekindling. He turns himself to stone, unfeeling, unmoving, unyielding under the slow-blooming realization.</p><p>‘It was you, wasn’t it? You sent the Treant into a frenzy and it went after those people.’</p><p>Foulques frowns, his hand tentative on his shoulder. ‘I merely delayed the Wailers. I wanted to see if they would take haste to come to the aid of an <em>outsider</em>.’</p><p>Rin pushes him back, furious — for himself, for thinking anything good could come from such a reckless idiot</p><p>‘One of this day someone will die. An innocent, most likely — and it will be on you. Wounds scab over, Foulques. Words fade.’ He heard the voices. Duskwights, blight of the Twelveswood. Brigands and thieves. Familiar slurs. ‘Whatever happened that hurt you so, I can help you undo — but not like this. This is <em>not </em>how you change their opinion of you. This is how you make a prophecy come true.’</p><p>It’s difficult to see Foulques face harden in a marble mask, his features drawn back by anger. Loss flickering in his eyes, as his jaw works around a semblance of dignity. He steps back and what little warmth I’rhinn is beginning to feel fades, leaving him to grasp nothing but fog. Then comes a hard shove, one that knocks him back against the stone. The forest goes out in a white flare of pain, and Foulques voices, still too close for comfort, seeps under his skin.</p><p>‘So be it. One of these days, I will change <em>you.</em> Or kill you. One or the other, it’s the same to me. Provided you survive the wilds long enough, that is.’</p><p>Rin doesn’t watch him go. Eventually the steps fade and the mist unfolds over the bottom of the ravine, and he finds the strength to pull himself on his feet. He finds his way back to the Wailers, back to Bentbranch, back to the Barracks, thinking of all the threads woven into Azeyma’s design, and how some can be changed, and some can only snap at every twist of fate.</p><p>But even after Ywain greets him back, his face dark with worry, he can’t shake the feeling that perhaps he should have listened better.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Foulques' treatment at the hands of the writers of ARR never sat right with me. I was eager to see more of Gridania's xenophobia explored and questioned through his story, but alas... we got zombies instead *sigh*</p><p>Also, I didn't put the warning in the previous chapter because I was face planting on my laptop, but -- this is painfully unrevised, as per spirit of the challenge, so thanks in advance for your patience if you picked your way through my typos!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 3. chess</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which I’rhinn loses some and wins some.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day 3# Muster</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>to assemble for battle, display, inspection, orders, or discharge</em>
</p><p>
  <em>to gather, summon, rouse</em>
</p><p> </p><p>---</p><p> </p><p>‘Your move, I’rhinn. Muster your troops.’</p><p> </p><p>The catch about Lalafell — in Rin’s experience — is that even the most deadass jerk among them is absolutely adorable, and impossible to turn down.</p><p>He’s also fairly sure Tataru is fully aware of Hydaelyn’s gift to her, and has no qualms when it comes to exploit every last bit of charm she has in store. He tried to negotiate with her about it before, promising to put a reasonable effort in sharpening his battle strategy if she will just stop sweet talking him into willingly getting <em>destroyed.</em></p><p>‘Ah, but that is the point of playing chess’ she answered, her button nose scrunching in delight at the annoyed flick of his tail. ‘You must think and act quickly under pressure. Otherwise, we might as well feed you to the next Primal like a prime little morsel.’</p><p>Her laughter sends tingles down his spine. Primals have absolutely <em>nothing </em>on a Lalafell hellbent on wrecking the last shreds of dignity Rin managed to salvage. <br/>But then again, to admit defeat would be like declaring to the world his utter inability to counter Tataru's efforts at becoming his friend.</p><p>And Tataru is powerful enough without knowing how dearly he cherishes their games.</p><p> </p><p>( ‘Checkmate~’</p><p>‘Wha— <em>again</em>?!’)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A teensy little Drabble because I'm running out of time, whelp :D</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 4. Echo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A study on the effect of the Echo.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Day 4# Clinch</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>verb (used without object)</em>
</p>
<p><em><br/></em>Boxing. To engage in a clinch.</p>
<p>Slang. to embrace, especially passionately.<br/>(of a clinched nail, screw, etc.) to hold fast; be secure.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>——</p>
<p> </p>
<p>When the Echo comes, it does not ask for permission.</p>
<p>Before the Calamity, when life was both simpler and harsher than this dwindling between light and shadows, Rin loved to watch bar fights. He even instigated some, for the sake of being a thorn in someone else’s side: there’s a special kind of fun in stepping out of line and back again, when the riot starts.</p>
<p>(<em>Sometimes I wonder how you do it</em>, Thancred says, one of the many evenings at Horizon, <em>what does it take for a single man be so incredibly aggravating?<br/></em>And Rin shrugs and says: <em>a lot of panache, </em>because that’s what he learned then. <em>You just need to pick your mask</em>.)</p>
<p>It took a careful mixture of gall and patience, but with enough training he learned to read the signals, the tells, the chinks in the armors. Some people’s giveaways were dead simple to spot; others took time, like unfolding a new map.</p>
<p>To this day, however, he finds no such thrills as the clash of bodies. The tension bursting like the frailest of bubble. The dance — grotesque, beautiful, sharp — of flesh. There is beauty to be found in the clinch of fighters, when the blows stop and both contenders sway in place, fastened like a clasp.</p>
<p>The Echo embraces him much in the same way. It is a fight Rin is not ready for.</p>
<p>It sneaks on him unaware. Through the sockets of the Monoe mask Rin has donned for the ceremony at the Mih Khetto amphitheater and <em>inside</em>. Not a wall, but a warmth. Not a surge, but a pull.</p>
<p>He arches back to strike, claws unsheathed, the wood of the mask covering his startled snarl, but the embrace swells from within, deaf to his fear. Like a moon, lulling the tide to sleep — and though I’rhinn expects the blow, it does not come. He sinks fast, body and conscience yielding to something much greater, much more ancient.</p>
<p>Then, there is silence. And in the silence, light.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Before the Crystal speaks, he wonders if this is what he sought all along. The sweet relief of surrendering; of dissolving, of being nothing and whole at once)</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Let's skip a day or two, she said, typing furiously to catch up, it'll be fun!<br/>I regret everything @-@</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This work was written for the 30 Day FFxivWrite Challenge, which can be found here: https://sea-wolf-coast-to-coast.tumblr.com</p></blockquote></div></div>
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